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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27319705">A Step to the Left</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AshDoesFandom/pseuds/AshDoesFandom'>AshDoesFandom</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>First Officer AU [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Trek, Star Trek: Lower Decks (Cartoon)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, C-PTSD, Captain Boimler, Dark, Demisexual D'Vana Tendi, Explosions, F/F, F/M, First Officer AU, First Officer Mariner, Friendship, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Getting Together, Human Trafficking, Medical Trauma, Mild Gore, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Brad Boimler, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, Protective Mariner, Queerplatonic Relationships, Slow Burn, Weird Plot Shit, implied poly</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 21:41:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,648</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27319705</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AshDoesFandom/pseuds/AshDoesFandom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Brad is not a naturally suspicious guy. That’s not to say that he easily trusts, per say. He does, however, end up in situations that Mariner would have easily avoided with the same amount of information as him. </p><p>“Street smarts,” she’d told him once. </p><p>“Shut up,” he’d said back.</p><p> </p><p>  <i> or, the Cerritos takes on a mission with Starfleet's newly minted flagship. Shenanigans and angst follow.</i></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Beckett Mariner &amp; Amina Ramsey, Brad Boimler &amp; Beckett Mariner, Brad Boimler/Beckett Mariner, D'Vana Tendi &amp; Brad Boimler, D'Vana Tendi &amp; Sam Rutherford, implied Boimler/Mariner/Tendi/Rutherford</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>First Officer AU [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1994563</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>61</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Beginnings of Bad Ventures</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em> “Captains Log. Stardate 60401. The Cerritos is docked by Starbase 978 for mandatory maintenance while First Officer Mariner and I pay a courtesy call to the </em> USS Andromeda, <em> per request of Captain Spence. Their situation is currently classified. Helmsman Dante has been given the position of Acting Captain until our return.” </em></p><hr/><p>Brad wonders if he’s ever going to get used to this. He’s been Captain of the <em> Cerritos </em> for three long, incredibly stressful years, and in that time he’s gained—what he hopes—is a flexible attitude. To be fair, he still gets anxious when they’re off schedule or when Tendi invents a new form of life that predictably begins to create problems down in Medbay, but for the most part, Brad is <em> way </em>more laid back than he was in his early twenties. Some of this is the combination of being given command at a young age and his friends “gently” nudging him in the right direction, but he knows that it’s mainly due to his First Officer’s laissez-faire perspective toward command.</p><p>None of this changes the fact that she still stresses him <em> the fuck out </em>.</p><p>“At least button your collar,” he snaps at her.</p><p>“It’s my look!” Mariner whispers back furiously. “You can’t censor my look!”</p><p>“I can when it’s against regulation. Captain Spence <em> will </em>make me put a note in your file.”</p><p>“Ugh.” Mariner glares at him and makes a show of slowly doing up her collar. She still leaves the top button popped. “Happy?”</p><p>“Sure.”</p><p>It’s silent in the turbolift for a moment.</p><p>“So, the <em> Andromeda </em>, huh?” she says, crossing her arms and leaning back against the wall.</p><p>Brad uneasily smooths out the wrinkles in his uniform. “What?”</p><p>“Nothing. Just can’t see why the Federation Flagship wants to talk to <em> us </em>.”</p><p>This was something he’d been worrying about the whole morning, but he wasn’t letting her know that. “I fail to see what you’re insinuating.”</p><p>“And now you sound like a Vulcan, cool—”</p><p>“I do <em> not </em>sound like a—”</p><p>“You do! You get all stressed out and anxious and then you start talking like a fucking thesaurus and I then have to bug you until you tell me what you’re upset about.”</p><p>“You <em> don’t have to bug me </em>.”</p><p>“So you admit you’re stressed about something.” </p><p>“I’m not <em> stressed </em>!”</p><p>The turbolift doors open.</p><p>Brad gives Mariner a glare before turning on his heel and exiting the lift. </p><p>Brad is very, very in love with the <em> Cerritos </em> , but the interior of the <em> Andromeda </em>is to fucking die for. She’s the brand new, top of the line, flagship. Her crew has been handpicked by the Admiralty for her maiden voyage and it shows. Brad is fairly certain that there isn’t a single ship in the Federation that is run with as much efficiency and care.</p><p>Twenty-year-old him would be kissing their ass for a transfer.</p><p>Thirty-two-year-old him just sighs wearily at Mariner who’s eyeing the deck with Distrust. “Why don’t <em> we </em>get reflective panels?”</p><p>“Because they’re a hazard,” he replies, just like every single time she’s asked.</p><p>“Captain Boimler, Officer Mariner, if you’ll follow me,” a blue haired Yeoman appears in front of them. “Captain Spence will meet you in Conference Room 3B.”</p><p>“They’re hot,” Mariner whispers, staring at the Yeoman’s back.</p><p>Brad grabs her elbow and guides her in the direction of the retreating Yeoman. “You think everyone is hot.”</p><p>“Everyone <em> is </em>hot,” she agrees. “But they are specifically very hot to me right now.”</p><p>“Just—” he tries to rub the oncoming headache out of his forehead. “Try to keep it in your pants until after our assignment, okay?”</p><p>“Absolutely zero promises.”</p><p>The Yeoman stops in front of a door marked <em> 3B </em>and hands Brad a packet. “He’ll be right in with you in a moment,” they say, chipper.</p><p>Brad intones his thanks, one eye on Mariner who bounces into the conference room and flops down in a chair. She immediately begins to spin around in it. </p><p>“We should get swivel chairs,” she says, seriously, after the Yeoman has left.</p><p>“I’ll put that under consideration,” he replies, which is code for <em> I definitely won’t be doing that </em> . He takes a seat next to her and opens his packet, glancing over the data padd and electronic files. Unsure whether he should be looking at them yet, he turns his attention toward the room. It’s larger than the conference rooms in the <em> Cerritos. </em>The room is draped in sterile whites and greys, with the darkness of space as a backdrop through the massive observation window. Something about the big room, filled only with the small conference table and chairs, makes him uneasy. </p><p>“Any idea what this is about?” Mariner interrupts his train of thought, dropping her chin into the palm of her hand and stretching lazily over the conference table.</p><p>“Only that it’s highly confidential.”  </p><p>“Kinky.” She snatches the data padd from Brad’s packet and tapping obnoxiously at it. A 3D blueprint of an unfamiliar vessel projects onto the table. “Huh.”</p><p>“Well, it seems that we aren’t the only idiots who have been roped into Spence’s dastardly schemes,” an amused voice drawls from the door.</p><p>“<em> Ramsey </em>?!” Mariner chokes, throwing her padd at Brad who fumbles to catch it. The projection turns off abruptly. </p><p>She vaults over the table and throws herself bodily at a familiar looking woman standing by the door. She’s shorter than him, but slightly taller than Mariner. Her hair is pulled back into a tight bun and her stance and crisply ironed uniform gives him the impression of a no-nonsense attitude. Her eyes, however, sparkle of the same trouble the Mariner’s often does. </p><p>“Captain Ramsey,” he says, standing up and holding his hand out. </p><p>The Captain—who’s beaming at Mariner in way that suggests they’re more than casual acquaintances—turns to eye Brad up.</p><p>“You must be Captain Boimler,” she says, taking his hand and firmly shaking it. Her accent is sharp and crisp and makes Brad straighten his spine unconsciously. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”</p><p>“The pleasure is all mine,” he automatically replies, decidedly not mentioning that they <em> have </em>met before. He doubts she has time to remember every lower deck officer she’s ever run into—let alone those on another ship. </p><p>Someone clears their throat. His eyes shift past Captain Ramsey and land on a Vulcan Officer standing her shoulder, frowning disdainfully.</p><p>“This is my Helmswoman, T’Plon,” Ramsey says, following his line of sight. “Acting First Officer.”</p><p>“I see you’re already acquainted with my First,” Brad replies, after inclining his head to T’Plon. Vulcans are weird about hands, so he doesn’t offer to shake hers.</p><p>“Something like that.” Ramsey grins at Mariner who, in turn, reddens slightly.</p><p>Brad’s eyes narrow.</p><p>“Oh, we’re more than acquainted,” Mariner replies, crossing her arms.</p><p>Brad really hopes this isn’t turning into another prison story. “Oh?”</p><p>“The Academy,” Mariner mutters, avoiding eye contact.</p><p>Well, that’s a relief. Doesn’t explain why Mariner’s being shifty. He wonders if they ended on bad terms. She’s certainly never mentioned the connection to Captain Ramsey before.</p><p>“If you don’t mind me asking, why are you on the <em> Andromeda?” </em> Brad interjects, keeping one eye on Mariner who’s still acting a little off. “I thought you were still captaining the <em> Oakland </em>?”</p><p>“Yeah, what are you doing on the <em> Andromeda?” </em> Mariner demands, hands on her hips. “Last I checked you were in space. Like DEEP space.”</p><p>“We’re all in deep space,” Brad points out, sighing.</p><p>“But like away! Far away!”</p><p>“I’m still Captain of the <em> Oakland, </em>” Ramsey interrupts, before Mariner can get too carried away. “My ship is here on Captain Spence’s invitation.”</p><p>“No way so are we. Any ideas why? I’m like 90 percent positive that it’s a drug thing.”</p><p>Brad is seriously regretting taking her with him. “Mariner—”</p><p>“You think Captain Spence is smuggling illegal imports?” Officer T’Plon questions, edging closer to Ramsey, brow furrowed.</p><p>“No, she doesn’t,” Brad and Ramsey say in unison. They both pause. Ramsey gives him the side eye.</p><p>“That was creepy,” Mariner mutters, frowning.</p><p>Brad feels his headache turning into a full blown migraine. As if Mariner isn’t bad enough, now there’s <em> two </em>of them. “She’s just like that,” he explains to the confused Vulcan. “Ignore her.”</p><p>“Thanks Brad.” Mariner sticks her tongue out.</p><p>“You’re welcome <em> Officer Mariner. </em>” He gives her a pointed look.</p><p>“Oh yeah, sorry, thanks <em> Captain </em>Bradward.”</p><p>“Mariner <em> shut up. </em>”</p><p>Ramsey looks between the two, apparently bemused with their dynamic. Which is weird. If she was with Mariner at the Academy, shouldn’t she already be used to the woman’s brand of crazy? Then again, Boimler’s known her for three years and he’s still acclimating to her chaotic behavior.  </p><p>“So, you made First Officer,” Ramsey says after a beat, seemingly trying to regain control of the rapidly escalating conversation. “Surprised <em> you’re </em>not a Captain yet,” she adds, turning back to Mariner.</p><p>“Yeah, being in charge isn’t really my thing,” Mariner says, mouth twitching, carefully <em> not </em>looking at Brad.</p><p>Brad rolls his eyes. Only last week he’d been chasing a delirious Mariner through the lower decks of the <em> Cerritos </em> , wincing at the volume of her voice as she shouted <em> “You can’t make me do anything I’M THE BOSS HERE.” </em></p><p>Doesn’t like being in charge his captain’s insignia.</p><p>“Not to mention you’d already be demoted a thousand times over if I wasn’t covering your ass,” Brad mutters. Mariner kicks at him.</p><p>“Shut up, I’m your favorite.” She smiles at him brightly.</p><p>His stomach does this weird flip flop thing that he usually associates with anxiety. “<em> Tendi’s </em>my favorite,” he flatly replies, trying to quell the blush rising up his neck.</p><p>Mariner pauses. “Okay that’s fair. She makes me very very gay.”</p><p>Ramsey clears her throat. “Oh?”</p><p>This conversation is getting progressively less professional the longer Brad’s in it. “Does anyone know why we’re all here?” he interrupts, trying to backpedal.</p><p>“That’s a very good question,” T’Plon agrees. “One that I’m interested in myself.”</p><p>The conference room door slides open again. “Fortunately, I have an answer for the both of you,” Captain Spence interjects, looking like he’s just <em> reveling </em>in his dramatic entrance. “Take a seat and we’ll begin.”</p><hr/><p>D’Vana frowns at her data padd. “This is fucking bullshit.”</p><p>Ensign Preston lets out a nervous laugh. “If you want, I can go get Dr. T’Ana-”</p><p>“If you tell Dr. T’Ana <em> anything </em>about this, I’m demoting you so hard you’ll wake up in a different show.”</p><p>“...what?”</p><p>“I don’t know, sounds like something Mariner would say.” </p><p>Preston titters. “<em> First Officer </em>Mariner?” she asks. </p><p>D’Vana sighs. Preston is a new addition to the <em> Cerritos </em> , one of the eight newly graduated cadets that have been placed here by request of the Admiralty. D’Vana is wary of anyone from the Admiralty, mainly because the <em> Cerritos </em>is under constant scrutiny from Starfleet. Since the entire senior crew had been replaced three years ago—sans Dr. T’Ana—they’ve been monitored by higher ups who are getting increasingly more overbearing each month. </p><p>(She suspects this may have something to do with Mariner but can’t prove it.) </p><p>Whatever the reason, each new officer or ensign placed on the ship is hyper aware of the senior crew’s reputation. Mainly that of Boimler and Mariner—the latter of which causes a fuck-ton of trouble for anyone and everyone in charge at Starfleet HQ, the former which spends all his time cleaning up after whatever fuckups the <em> Cerritos </em>causes.</p><p>Boimler’s probably lying about shit Mariner does in mission reports, is what D’Vana is saying. Or at least, toning it down. Like way down. </p><p>Anyway, the new recruits look like they’re gonna piss themselves whenever the topic of Mariner comes up. Which is super hilarious, but also relatable. When D’Vana first met the woman in question, she was pretty sure she was going to lose it not only from how gay the whole interaction made her, but also because Boimler was having an actual aneurysm. </p><p>Mariner still gives Boimler stress migraines weekly, which is as hilarious as it is inconvenient. </p><p>“Go enjoy your buffer time,” D’Vana tells Preston, who’s still vibrating with anxiety at the mention of Mariner. </p><p>The ensign squeaks and scuttles away. D’Vana sighs and turns back to the padd she’d been frowning at. On it, Rutherford’s vitals from his last checkup are displayed. </p><p>Since her best friend had regressed about a year in memories, he’d been in and out of Medbay with weird headaches. They hadn’t been super concerned about it, until one notable occasion when he’d started bleeding from his ears. </p><p>“Shrapnel in the ear canal,” Dr. T’Ana had grimly diagnosed. “Probably caused during the explosion. Or when his prosthetic was ripped out.” </p><p>“It’s an easy fix though, right?” D’Vana had questioned. “We just take it out and seal the wound.”</p><p>Rutherford had grimaced. “That’s not going to work.” </p><p>“What? Why?”</p><p>“Have you looked at my medical file?” He asked, nervously wringing his hands. “It’s-I don’t- the reason for my prosthetic-”</p><p>Dr. T’Ana had shoved a data padd under her nose and D’Vana had spent all night puking her guts up. She’d been friends with Rutherford for an entire year and not once—<em> not once </em>—had she questioned the reason a non-hybrid human in reasonably good health might need an eye prosthetic. </p><p>Someone had shoved a fucking space worm in her friend’s brain. </p><p>“Did you know about this?” she seethed, shoving her padd into Boimler’s chest. </p><p>Boimler—who had been in and out of meetings with the Admiralty for the past three days— exhaustedly sighed when he’d seen the contents of the padd. “Tendi—”</p><p>“Why didn’t you tell me?” She balled her hands into tight fists. “I’m your best friend.”</p><p>“Not my story to tell.” </p><p>“He’s also my best friend!” She threw her hands up in the air. </p><p>“And he was probably going to tell you. Well, eventually.” Boimler caught her hands. “Look-”</p><p>“So what, because a fucking space worm decided to lay eggs in his brain, we can’t give him fucking ear surgery?”</p><p>“Dr. T’Ana thinks that they’ll hatch if overstimulated. There’s nothing we can currently do, until Starfleet Medical figures out a way to-”</p><p>“Then why didn’t they hatch during the explosion? Or when Shaxs ripped his implant out?” she demanded. </p><p>Boimler pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand. “I’m not a doctor, Tendi. Take it up with T’Ana. Or, you know, maybe talk to Rutherford about it. Since it’s his call.”</p><p>“Like he’s going to listen to anything I have to say! He doesn’t even-he can’t.” She stopped. Stared up at Boimler in horror. “Oh my god.” </p><p>Boimler’s eyes widened with panic. “Shit-” </p><p>“My best friend doesn’t remember me, and he might be <em> dying </em>-”</p><p>“He’s not dying, he’s <em> fine </em>, you just saw him less than an hour ago-”</p><p>“But he could be! He could have!”</p><p>“He’s not.” Boimler’s voice is firm. “He’s going to be fine.”</p><p>She had glared at him. “Yeah, how do you know that?”</p><p>“Because if one more stressful thing happens this week <em> I’m </em>going to die.” Boimler gives a weak smile. “Also, Dr. T’Ana’s been treating him for like a year now. I think she has a pretty good handle on what’s going on. So calm down, okay?” </p><p>She’d deflated. “Sorry.” </p><p>“It’s fine.” </p><p>“I’m just worried. T’Ana can’t get the shrapnel out.”</p><p>Boimler twitched in that familiar anxious way of his. “I heard about that. What are they going to do?”</p><p>“She’s giving him a prosthetic that doubles as a magnet to try and keep it from burrowing in deeper. At least until we can do something about the eggs.” </p><p>“Good.” He pushed the padd back into her hands. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”</p><p>D’Vana blinked up at him in surprise. “What?” </p><p>He smiled at her tiredly. “You’re the smartest person I know, Tendi. Lightyears ahead of Starfleet Medical. You’ll figure it out.”</p><p>It’s been three years to the day, and D’Vana is no closer to figuring it out than she was back then. Boimler’s faith in her is flattering, but misplaced. </p><p>She stares down at the data padd. The eggs still lie dormant, but the shrapnel is burrowing its way deeper into his skin. Any deeper, and it’s going to cause significant damage, possibly to his brain if an infection sets in. </p><p>“Fucking bullshit,” she reiterates, walking in the direction of Medbay. She has work to do. </p><hr/><p>Captain Spence was in his mid-forties, so Brad hadn’t had the pleasure of encountering him at the Academy. He was, however, in the same graduating class as Spence’s younger sister, Clarissa, who was a droll woman, with zero sense of humor. Not that Brad had much of a sense of humor at the time, but if <em> he </em>was noticing it, it was bad. </p><p>Spence is the polar opposite of Clarissa, in every way. He’s a flamboyant, energetic man, despite being middle aged, who gave Brad the general impression that if this Starfleet thing doesn’t work out, he should try for theater. </p><p>It’s easy to tell why he’d been given the Federation Flagship. Between his spotless record and his charismatic personality, Brad is surprised that he didn’t make captain <em> sooner. </em> </p><p>“Aureus VII,” Captain Spence gestures to the holoprojection of a triad of planets on the edge of the neutral zone. “They produce a rare ore known as <em> Pthialiht </em> in their mountains, which makes them an asset to the <em> Federation. </em> We’ve established first contact with the colony, but there’s been some- <em> hiccups </em>-with second contact.” </p><p>“Why’s the ore special?” Mariner questions, leaning forward on her elbows. “Is this some <em> Avatar </em>shit?”</p><p>Brad resists the urge to roll his eyes. They were less than three minutes into the briefing, and she was already making obscure references that no one understood. He gives her a sharp look that she promptly ignores. </p><p>“<em> Pthialiht </em>is a fuel source,” Captain Spence indulges her. “The Aureuians are fully capable of space travel-”</p><p>“-duh, or we wouldn’t have made first contact-” </p><p>“-the <em> Pthialiht </em>is what powers their engines. The ore is mostly useless to us, of course, but they’ve established trade with nearby planets with it. That’s where the true asset comes in.” </p><p>“You mentioned that you were having issues with Second Contact?” Ramsey inquires, resting her chin in the palm of her hand—a mirror image of Mariner, who’s once again draped over the table. </p><p>Captain Spence doesn’t seem to mind. “While we have a treaty with the colony, there’s been some issues with them...<em> acclimating </em>to the Federation. One of the smaller planets—Vishna—has offered to send some of their orphans to Starfleet Academy. We’re willing to offer them any refuge that they may request, but the rest of the colony is hesitant to send them off.” </p><p>Ramsey shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “They don’t trust the Federation?”</p><p>“Would you?” Mariner asks. </p><p>Everyone stares at her. </p><p>She rolls her eyes. “I’m not saying we’re untrustworthy. If someone landed in your backyard, handing you a deal too good to be true, wouldn’t you have some doubts?”</p><p>“Exactly my thoughts,” Captain Spence says, nodding. “Which is, of course, why I called you,” he adds, gesturing to Brad and Mariner. “The <em> Cerritos </em>has a nearly spotless record when it comes to second contact—specifically when the two of you transferred senior staff. I requested your ship for this mission because I was hoping that you could establish amity with them, so to speak.” </p><p>“Cool, so why’s she here?” Mariner thumbs toward Ramsey. </p><p>Ramsey blinks back at her, disgruntled. “I-”</p><p>“Captain Ramsey is here on my request for insurance,” Captain Spence smoothly interjects. “The colony is made up of three planets. As much as I’d like to own up to the <em> Andromeda’s </em>reputation, we are unable to manage all three of the territories at once. Ramsey will be keeping an eye on things from up here, while we establish second contact on the ground.” </p><p>“Seems reasonable,” Brad says, before Mariner can interject. “What are our mission parameters?” </p><p>“Tomorrow at 0900 hours, we will beam a team of handpicked officers down to Vishna. There is not quite an itinerary of mission points that you have to hit, just...we’re looking for a team of people who can establish trust with the colony. If everything goes well, my ship will be ready to transport the Aureuian refugees to Starfleet.” </p><p>“Establish trust, pick up the orphans. Sounds good,” Mariner snaps her fingers. “Anything else you need from us?”</p><p>“Tonight? No. Enjoy your evening at the base. I hear they have an open bar on Deck 7.”</p><p>“Spence, you are my kind of man,” Mariner tells him, seriously. </p><p>He chuckles jovially back. “I look forward to your mission reports,” he offers his hand to Brad and then to Ramsey, who both firmly shake it. </p><p>“I might take you up on that open bar,” Ramsey tells him. “Deck 7?”</p><p>“Unfortunately, I am unable to attend. My responsibilities keep me chained to my desk.”</p><p>“A struggle I deeply understand,” Ramsey grins.</p><p> Captain Spence glances about the room, catching all of their eyes, before nodding once and departing. </p><p> Ramsey, dropping her stiff stance, turns to Brad’s First. “You in, Mariner?”</p><p>“Totally. Let me just escort Princess Brad back to his castle first.” </p><p>“Oh, your captain isn’t coming?”</p><p>“I-” </p><p>Mariner kicks him. Lightly. “He’s not interested, trust me,” she insists. “Totally not his scene. Right, Boims?”</p><p>Brad gives her a tight smile. “Absolutely not. Enjoy your evening, though.” </p><p> Ramsey grins at Mariner. “I guess I’ll see you when I see you.”</p><p>“I guess you will,” Mariner gives her finger guns. Brad all but drags her out the door. </p><p>The two of them are silent as they navigate the halls back to the turbolift, and then from there, to the transporter pad. Mariner watches the <em> Andromeda's </em>crew with suspicious eyes the whole way.</p><p>“Two to beam back, Briggs,” Brad says into his insignia. </p><hr/><p>Beckett is naturally a suspicious woman. </p><p>It makes sense. Growing up as a Starfleet brat had given her a unique perspective that not many officers in her position had. Obviously, some of it came from her experiences in the Dominion War (which she wasn’t talking about. Ever.), but most of it came from her parents. Between her mother’s passive aggressiveness and her father’s mind games, she had developed an innate sixth sense when it came to reading a room. </p><p>Brad is not a naturally suspicious guy. That’s not to say that he easily trusts, per say. He does, however, end up in situations that she would have easily avoided with the same amount of information as him. </p><p>“Street smarts,” she’d told him once. </p><p>“Shut up,” he’d said back.</p><p>Which, whatever. Beckett’s not devaluing book smarts by any means. She’s just saying that she happens to have a certain intuition when it comes to reading people’s motivations and he’s better and memory recall and shit. If anything, it makes them a hell of a team. </p><p>So it comes as a total surprise that night, when Brad turns to her and says, “Did something about all that seem off to you?”</p><p>Beckett blinks at him from her reclining position in her chair. “Wait, you noticed it too?” </p><p>They’re in his ready room. He’s already briefed the senior staff and sent them on their way, so it’s just the two of them. For the past twenty minutes, he’s been laser focused on his padd, probably swiping through the Aureus VII First Contact reports. </p><p>She’d been leaning back in her chair, feet up on the table, aggressively filing a nail. Passive aggressively ignoring her comm chirping. Amina could wait a few more minutes. Brad had been quiet for the last ten minutes, occasionally huffing in irritating at whatever he was reading. Now he’s seemingly abandoned his padd on the table, giving her his full attention. </p><p>“I’m not an idiot, of course I noticed,” he sighs, folding his hands together and propping his chin on them. “Last I checked, the Federation Flagship didn’t need <em> two </em>explorer class ships as backup for a second contact mission.”</p><p>Beckett gives him a <em> look </em>. “Seriously? Is this about Ramsey?” </p><p>“What? No,” he protests. “I’m just saying they definitely don’t need both ships for this mission. What were <em> you </em>talking about?”</p><p>“Uh, Captain Spence’s bad vibes, clearly!” She gestured wildly. “I thought you were actually onto something, but really? You were getting suspicious of Ramsey?” </p><p>“What’s your problem with Captain Spence?”</p><p>“He’s shifty! And he didn’t get my <em> Avatar </em>reference.”</p><p>“<em> I </em> don’t get your <em> Avatar </em>reference. And you think everyone’s shifty!”</p><p>“That’s because they are! Look, I just think there’s something off about this whole thing. Why does the face of the Federation need <em> us </em> when they can literally request <em> anyone </em>in the whole galaxy?”</p><p>Brad makes the face he always makes when he knows she has a point but doesn’t want to admit it. “Better yet, why do they need <em> two-” </em></p><p>“Get off Ramsey’s back, it makes perfect sense that he called her.”</p><p>“Oh?” He gives her a disbelieving scoff. Beckett grits her teeth. </p><p>“Because she’s fucking competent at her job, dumbass.” </p><p>“Yeah, and how long ago did you know her? Like a decade?”</p><p>This is moving into territory that she really doesn’t want to explore. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “We stayed in contact. You’re deflecting.” </p><p><em> Hypocrite, </em>her mind sings. She ignores it. </p><p>He huffs. “Fine. Maybe I’m overreacting,” he admits, ever the one to compromise first. “But so are you.” </p><p>“I’m <em> not </em>-”</p><p>“Just. Follow the mission parameters and if you see something suspicious-”</p><p>She opens her mouth. He glares at her. She shuts it again.</p><p>“-tell me before you do anything impulsive or stupid.” </p><p>“Uhm I am never impulsive, what are you talking about?” </p><p>He rolls his eyes. “Ugh, go get drunk with your friend or whatever. And please don’t do anything that requires me to release a public statement.” </p><p>“When are you gonna let that go? That was like <em> one </em>time.”</p><p>“One time too many,” Brad quips, clearly holding back a grin. “Now get,” he flicks his fingers at her. “I’m busy.” </p><p>“Never too busy for me,” she replies flippantly, giving him a pat on the head as she bounces around him, toward the door. “Actually try and get some sleep tonight, dummy, don’t just read mission reports all night.” </p><p>“Okay, mom.” </p><p>She flicks his nose in retaliation. “Kinky. Don’t miss me too much.” </p><p>Beckett’s out the door before he can sputter out an embarrassed reply. Really, Brad is too easy sometimes. </p><hr/><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Suspicious Encounters</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>Captain’s Log. Stardate 60479. The Cerritos is en route to </em>Aureus VII <em>on a routine second contact mission. First Officer Mariner has been tasked to put together an away mission crew. Officer Tendi and I will be monitoring the situation from the Bridge.</em></p><hr/><p>
  <em>Three years ago: </em>
</p><p>The first thing he’s aware of is a soft voice. At first he’s confused. Mainly because they’re in another language, and usually his cybernetic automatically translates for him, but the foreign words seem to get jumbled and muddled between his ears and brain, like it’s wading through a thick sea of cotton that detangles the words’ original meaning. </p><p>He blinks an eye—(singular, what the fuck?)—open and immediately realizes the reason. His cybernetic eye is offline. </p><p>No, not offline. Missing. </p><p>Frowning, Sam reaches up. Paws at the bandage over his empty eye socket. </p><p>“Sam!” the voice cuts off whatever they were saying and switches to Standard. “Oh gods, you’re awake.” A relieved face pops into his field of vision. An Orion girl sits bedside, a medical journal in one hand. “You’re awake!”</p><p>“I am? I am.” He blinks up at the ceiling for a moment. “What’s happening?”</p><p>“You’re in medbay.”</p><p>“I got that. I mean. What’s wrong with me? You’re my doctor, right?” </p><p>The woman’s brow furrows. “What? Why would I be your doctor? I’m an assistant at <em>best</em> on the <em>Cerritos</em>.” </p><p>“You’re an officer on the <em>Cerritos</em>?” Sam frowns. He thought he knew most everyone from medbay. </p><p>She stares at him, unblinking, for a moment. “<em>Fuck</em>.” </p><p> </p><p>So. Turns out. He’s missing a year. A whole fucking year. </p><p>Oh yeah, and half the crew is dead, the majority of the senior staff has resigned, and they’re all being promoted to command. </p><p>“Wouldn’t it make more sense to decommission the ship and transfer us elsewhere?” Sam wonders out loud. </p><p>Boimler makes an agreeing sound from where his face is buried in the table. “You would <em>think</em>.”</p><p>“A lot of shit happened in the last year,” D’Vana Tendi—the pretty orion, who was apparently one of his best friends—mutters, giving him the side eye. “You and Boimler were already lined up for promotions.”</p><p>“And there’s the whole PR thing.” Boimler’s voice is muffled.</p><p>“And there’s the whole PR thing,” Tendi agrees, taking another sip from her brightly colored drink. “Bad enough that two starships and a science vessel are out of commission for the unforeseeable future without factoring in the fatalities. It’s a fucking mess.”</p><p>“Decommissioning the ship would be accepting failure or some bullshit,” Boimler mutters, “Or at least that’s what Freeman told me.” </p><p>Sam picks at a grove in the table. “Doesn’t explain why they’re making you Captain, though.” </p><p>“Hey now,” Tendi points a finger at him. “Be nice. Boimler’s super qualified to run our trashcan of a ship.” </p><p>“Thank you, Tendi.”</p><p>“No problem, baby. Get me a refill?”</p><p>Boimler sits up, rolling his eyes. There’s a slight imprint in his face where it was smooshed against the table and his hair is sticking up in the front again. It’s cute, like in a weird Boimler way, Sam decides. Unaware of his inner musings, Boimler glares at them both. “I thought <em>I</em> was in charge,” he says, but picks up Tendi’s glass anyway. They watch head toward the bar for a moment. </p><p>“Soooo, are you two together?” Sam asks before he can consult his brain. </p><p>Tendi snorts, stretching her arms above her and cracking her knuckles. “We’re platonic. Like I’d totally marry him, but like platonically. Just <em>frieeeeends</em>,” she sings. Then pauses. “Not just. There’s no ‘just’ in friendship. Friendship is just as cool as romance.” </p><p>Sam smiles at her rambling. That’s cute too. “And us?”</p><p>“You and Boimler are friends too,” she says, her tone implying the <em>duh</em>. </p><p>“No, like <em>you and me</em>, us.”</p><p>There’s a pause. Then, “We’re also friends,” Tendi says, smiling. It looks a bit brittle around the edges. Sam wishes he could smooth it out, find a way to bring the spark back into her bright green eyes. </p><p> “Cool,” he says. </p><p>“Cool,” she agrees. </p><p>“What’s cool?” Boimler asks, sliding back into the booth next to Sam. He shoves Tendi’s drink at her. </p><p>“Not you,” she replies easily, taking a loud slurping sip from her straw. </p><p>“Wow. I take you out, buy your alcohol, put up with your shit, and this is how I’m treated?” </p><p>“Sucks to be you,” Sam says, resting his chin in the palm of his hand as he watches his two friends bounce banter back and forth. </p><p>“Why am I friends with you guys?” Boimler groans. There’s a smile fighting it’s way out, so Sam’s not too worried. </p><p>“Because we’re both smart and badass and that’s your type,” Tendi says, wisely. “You should always be friends with people you’re attracted to.”</p><p>“You’re attracted to <em>everyone</em>, Tendi.</p><p>“That’s why I have so many friends!”</p><p>Sam watches as the two bicker good naturedly, a warmth balling up in his chest. Yeah, everything was going to be fine. </p><hr/><p><em>Present:</em> </p><p>Sam Rutherford wakes up and regrets everything.</p><p>It’s how his day usually starts. He wakes up, feels the dull headache behind his eyes, is reminded of his own mortality and regrets, well, everything. Mariner says it’s “a mood.” Boimler says it’s a reasonable reaction to trauma and <em>please go to therapy you’re stressing me out</em>. Tendi doesn’t say much of anything. </p><p>This is unusual. Or, Sam thinks it is. According to Boimler- the expert on all things Tendi and vice versa- a quiet Tendi is a dangerous Tendi. “She’s either doing some evil science thing that you <em>don’t</em> want to know about, or she’s about to have a breakdown. Which you also don’t want,” he explained one time, after watching Tendi silently chug three cups of coffee in the cafeteria before slinking back to medbay. </p><p>“I would love to see D’Vana cut a bitch,” Mariner had replied, resting her chin in the palm of her hand. </p><p>“Her breakdowns aren’t violent.” Boimler rolled his eyes. “Not everyone’s <em>you</em>.”</p><p>Mariner had flipped in the bird and sauntered off in Tendi’s direction, effectively ending the conversation. </p><p>Most days Sam doesn’t know what to think of D’Vana Tendi. She’s one of his best friends-- their friendship now going on three years—but sometimes she looks at him like she can’t figure him out. And then he’s reminded that he’s been her friend for four years, but she’s only been his for three.</p><p>It’s a weird feeling. One that usually leaves him feeling like the odd one out. Like he’s missing something that the rest of the group aren’t. Even Mariner seems to click in well, and she met Tendi around the same time he did. </p><p>Re-met. Whatever. </p><p>The point is life is weird and he probably has depression. Or something. Sam is the type of guy to focus on the positives of life, but his therapist calls it “suppression” and “highly unhealthy” or whatever. </p><p>It doesn’t matter. What’s the point of fixing unhealthy habits if he might not survive the next few hours? </p><p>Sam throws him out of bed with way more energy than he feels and pushes himself through the first few minutes of his day. </p><hr/><p>D’Vana’s been at it for about 5 hours and she still has no answers regarding Rutherford’s situation. It was an impossible problem that she would have given up on long ago, if it weren’t for her friend’s dependability on her solving it. Still, she is ready to call it quits for the night—she’d worked the whole through alpha shift and straight into beta shift—and get some rest before Boimler briefed her on whatever he’d gone over with senior staff a few hours ago.</p><p>Then Mariner shows up. </p><p>“I thought you were meeting up with Captain Ramsey?” She takes in the other’s woman’s haphazard appearance. Her uniform sleeves are rolled up—not weird for her but becoming less and less common lately—and her collar is popped. Her hair, usually pulled back in a tight ponytail, is loosely pulled back into a messy bun. </p><p>What stands out the most, however, is Mariner’s slumped shoulders and listless eyes. </p><p>“Ugh, so Brad told you about everything? He’s such a gossip” Mariner groans, hopping up on the countertop near D’Vana’s station. D’Vana is decidedly too tired to lecture her on sitting on a sterile countertop, so she lets it go.</p><p>“He mentioned it in passing.” Technically true. She has not been officially briefed on the mission specifics, but she had been there for a ten-minute rant on Mariner’s behavior during Spence’s briefing. It was hilarious and illuminating. “Is he still briefing senior staff?”</p><p>“He finished like an hour ago and kicked me out.” </p><p>“Is something wrong?” D’Vana pokes at her calculations. There’s still something she’s not seeing there.  </p><p>“Something about this whole thing is fucked up,” Mariner sighs, swinging her legs. “I can’t put my finger on it.”</p><p>“Are you sure that this is about Captain Spence?” D’Vana asks pointedly, eyes still glued to her data padd. She frowns down at her formula. The numbers make even less sense now. What’s she missing? </p><p>“So, Brad <em>did</em> mention something. Ugh. First of all, yes, this is about Captain Spence. Second, keep it down, I don’t need my business all over the ship.”</p><p>“That’s a first. Ramsey someone special?” D’Vana bats her eyelashes innocently at Mariner as if Mariner hadn’t drunkenly waxed poetic over Ramsey on three separate occasions. It had taken a moment to make the connection when Boimler mentioned her. She hadn’t known that Ramsey was Starfleet. </p><p>Mariner shifts uncomfortably—a tell that indicates that she’s embarrassed. This gives D’Vana pause as there wasn’t much that could get under Mariner’s skin, excluding the topic of her family or her steadily growing attachment to their Captain. </p><p>(Yes, D’Vana is aware of that recent development. No, she will not be commenting on it.) </p><p>“Just a past hookup.” </p><p>“A hookup that you remember well enough that you’ve mentioned her to me. On multiple occasions.”</p><p>Mariner makes a sour face. “Yeah, yeah, so we fucked around for a few years and I caught feelings. It didn’t end awesome. Look, Tendi, don’t make this out to be bigger than it is. Especially to Brad. He’s already fucking suspicious.”</p><p>“Oh?” D’Vana widens her eyes to appear more innocent. “Suspicious of you two?” </p><p>“What? No. He’s just suspicious in general. Some bullshit over her not being needed for the mission.”</p><p>“<em>Is</em> she needed for the mission?” </p><p>“I mean, Captain Spence did ask for her specifically.” Mariner’s voice is defensive.</p><p>“The same captain you’re getting bad vibes from. Maybe Boimler has a point.” </p><p>“Ugh, not you too.” </p><p>“Listen, if you’re so concerned about Spence, you can run a background check on him. Or, better yet, let me do it. That way you can keep Boimler from dying of anxiety over this whole thing.”</p><p>At the mention of that, Mariner stills. “He’s no worse than usual. Right?”</p><p>“I mean, he’s been anxious since the day I met him. It’s kinda increased since he took command, not that he’s done anything about it. Why’d you ask?”</p><p>“No reason,” Mariner says, unconvincingly. She won’t make eye contact. Which is just what D’Vana needs right now: emotionally evasive Mariner. Which was her most of the time, to be honest, but still inconvenient. </p><p>D’Vana wrinkles her nose at her. “Are you worried about Boimler?” </p><p>“Isn’t that my job?” Mariner crosses her arms defensively. </p><p>D’Vana carefully controls her expression, aware that the slightest hint of feelings was going to shut the other woman down. It was no secret that Mariner cared far more about the <em>Cerritos</em> than she cared to admit. As much as she put up a fuss about regulation and claimed to detest her position as First Officer, anyone with a brain on the ship could see that she was protective over the crew.</p><p>But especially Boimler.</p><p>It was cute, D’Vana supposed, that the two most emotionally constipated people on the ship secretly had squishy feelings for each other. And by secret she means that the entire crew is in the fucking know and probably a good portion of Starfleet.</p><p>But yeah, it’s cute. </p><p>“I thought your job was fucking his shit up,” D’Vana deflects. “Or you know, managing the crew, picking up the slack where he can’t, delegating tasks, taking the lead on away miss—”</p><p>“Okay, okay, shut up.” Mariner rolls her eyes. “Fine, I’m mildly worried. Stressing him out is like my favorite pastime, but he’s been weird lately. Like he might have a heart attack kind of weird.”</p><p>“And by lately you mean?”</p><p>“A month or so.” Mariner examines her thumbnail. “I asked him if he needed to be on medication and he threw me out of his room.”</p><p>D’Vana blinks. “What were you doing in his room.”</p><p>Mariner narrows her eyes at her. “It’s like right next to mine.”</p><p>“Okay, but what were you doing there?”</p><p>“What are you, a cop? I was checking out his air vents.” </p><p>Sometimes D’Vana can totally understand where Boimler is coming from with Mariner. “What’s wrong with his air vents?” </p><p>“Nothing, I was just checking them out.”</p><p>Like with most things Mariner-related, sometimes it’s just better to let it go. “Do you think he should be on medication? Or taking some time off at least?” she asks, serious. </p><p>“I mean, maybe? Most days he looks like he’s about to vibrate straight out of his skin.”</p><p>D’Vana grimaces. She knows what she means. Generally, Boimler is a nervous sort of person. It’s what makes him good at his job; his meticulous double checking of every fucking thing makes him organized and detailed oriented to the point of frustration. But he usually has it firmly in check. Since Mariner joined their crew, he’s mellowed out—a byproduct of managing her maniac energy no doubt. Still, from time to time, he has a particularly bad episode that usually results in butting heads with an already high-strung Mariner.</p><p>It never ends well.</p><p>“Is that why you two have been tense lately?” D’Vana asks, tapping her chin with her index finger thoughtfully. “I thought it was. Other things.” She eyes Mariner with a frown.</p><p>Mariner frowns back. “What else would it be?”</p><p>D’Vana is not going to be the one to broach the topic. She’s not. “Nothing. Just things.”</p><p>“Tendi.”</p><p>“Ask Rutherford,” D’Vana automatically says. Her go to phrase whenever Mariner tries to pry something private out of her.</p><p>Mariner rolls her eyes. “Fine, whatever. I’m gonna go catch some shut eye before shit blows up. You should too, by the way,” she adds, giving D’Vana a swift once over. </p><p>“Yeah probably,” D’Vana admits, shutting down her formula. It isn’t as if it’s working anyway. “I still need to go over the mission details Boimler sent me and go talk to him.”</p><p>“Okay, but get some sleep after. Or before maybe. You’re looking a little.” Mariner gestures vaguely in her direction. “Rough.”</p><p>“Thanks babe.” D’Vana rolls her eyes, but gives Mariner a quick peck on the cheek. “I just want to skim them. Don’t do anything stupid without me.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Mariner promises, grinning. She jumps deftly off the counter and heads toward the door. “Let me know if you find anything weird so I can throw it in Brad’s face.”</p><p>“I thought you were trying to give him <em>less</em> anxiety,” D’Vana mutters. She turns back to her padd, opening the file Boimler had dropped in her inbox earlier. </p><hr/><p>The past had finally caught up with Beckett. </p><p>Okay, that sounds a little fucking dramatic. To be honest, Amina’s appearance was more inconvenient than anything—mainly, explaining her connection to Amina to everyone else without sounding like a bitter ex-girlfriend. And the last thing Brad needed was another reason to be suspicious of the other captain. </p><p>Beckett is incredibly evasive about her past—for good reason, she doesn’t need people pitying her or acting weird. There also wasn’t really a good way to tell people <em>“hey you know that dominion war thing? Yeah I was there for that and it fucked me 99 different ways to crazy town and is why I sleep with a d’k tahg under my pillow.”</em> </p><p>No real easy way to tell anybody that. Not to mention, she didn’t need her friends psychoanalyzing every move she made. She got enough of that from her parents. </p><p>Then there was Amina.</p><p>They had left on good-terms, despite--well--<em>everything</em>. Mariner had kept in contact for a few years, but it eventually fizzled out as life got more complicated. The last she heard of her was a voicemail, after the release of the <em>Battle of Cardassia</em> casualty list. Amina had been crying. Beckett didn’t call her back. </p><p>Which leaves them here. In a bar, on <em>Starbase 978</em>. </p><p>“I did hear of the promotion, of course,” Amina was saying, rotating her glass so that the ice clinks against the sides. </p><p>“At this point, I’m surprised if the whole fucking Federation hadn’t heard of it,” Beckett mutters, glowering mulishly at her drink. </p><p>Amina bumps her shoulder with her own. Smiles like she knows something Beckett doesn’t. “Please stop brooding. It wasn’t gossip; I’ve just been keeping tabs on you.”</p><p>This startles Mariner. “What?”</p><p>“My dear Mariner, don’t sound so surprised. We were best friends, once.” </p><p><em>Before you stabbed me in the back</em>, Beckett’s intrusive thoughts darkly mutter before she can stop them. </p><p>Beckett squashes her inconvenient feelings down. No use bringing up decade old grudges now. She’s here to have a good time, not wallow in the past. “And now we’re Captain and First Officer,” she says lightly, instead of starting a fight. </p><p>“Not in the same crew though,” Amina says, ruefully. “I was hoping I could change that.”</p><p>“Oh, is that why I’m here?” Beckett grins. “Ply me with alcohol, make me nostalgic for old times—”</p><p>Amina chuckles. “Alright, you’ve got me. But can you blame me? You’re wasted on that ship.” She wrinkles her nose disdainfully. “You deserve a crew that can keep you with you.” </p><p>Beckett carefully sets her drink down. “Well, then you haven’t met Tendi. I can’t keep up with <em>her</em>.”</p><p>“She can transfer with you,” Amina waves her off. “The point is, I’m looking for a new First Officer. I’d like you to consider it.”</p><p>“What about T’Plon? She seems to have a pretty good handle on the job.”</p><p>Amina shakes her head. “T’Plon is filling in until I can permanently assign someone.” </p><p>“Yeah, about that. What happened to your XO? I was unaware that the <em>Oakland</em> had an open spot.”</p><p>“Officer Barret is out of commission due to a medical situation,” Amina sighs. “Strictly confidential, but between us? Their recovery is uncertain.”</p><p>Beckett winces. “Shit. I’m sorry.”</p><p>“Don’t be.” Amina’s voice is firm. “Just say you’ll take the job.”</p><p>Beckett suppresses the urge to sigh. Amina rarely knew how to take no for an answer a decade ago, and it seems that she hasn’t grown out of that stubborn trait. “I can’t just switch ships, Ramsey.” She keeps her eyes firmly on her glass. “There’s people that I care about on the <em>Cerritos</em>.”</p><p>In her peripheral vision, Amina’s face falls. “Oh.” </p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>Neither of them speak. Amina has always been able to read between the lines when it comes to Beckett. </p><p>“And there’s nothing I can do to change your mind?” </p><p>Beckett’s eyes shut briefly as Amina lightly touches her shoulder. “Probably not, short of a miracle.”</p><p>“Well. Hopefully I can whip one up before the mission’s over.” Amina smiles at her. “I look forward to you working with me.”</p><p>Beckett smiles wanly at her. “Sure.” She drains her glass. It’s going to be a long fucking mission. </p><hr/><p>“We have a situation,” D’Vana says, bursting into Boimler’s private quarters. She frowns in the darkness. “Lights 80 percent.”</p><p>“Wah-<em>Tendi</em>?” Brad sits up in bed, blinking at the sudden harsh light. He’s wearing a white off-duty shirt and his usually immaculate hair is--for once--is completely disheveled. She’s hit with a wave of nostalgia of when they were all lower deck ensigns, sharing sleeping quarters together. </p><p>“Were you asleep?”</p><p>“It’s—” Boimler glances at his data padd on the nightstand. “—4 <em>fucking</em> pm. Yeah, I was asleep,” he snappishly mutters, rubbing his eyes. “You couldn’t have commed me?” </p><p>“Ship wide communications are monitored and sent to Starfleet HQ.”</p><p>“Oh, I can already tell <em>this</em> is going to be a good conversation.” He throws his legs over the bed. “Can we talk in here, or do we need to go somewhere more secure.”</p><p>D’Vana blinks at him. “There’s somewhere more secure than the <em>Captain’s Quarters</em>?”</p><p>He gives her a <em>look</em>. “Mariner’s my First Officer.” His voice is flat.</p><p>“Okay, that’s fair,” she responds. “But no. I don’t think so? I might be overreacting.” </p><p>“That seems to be a common theme lately,” Boimler mutters, standing up and reaching for the pair of pants carefully folded over a chair. “What’s going on?”</p><p>“So, Mariner’s been having me look at the mission logs for Aureus VII’s First Contact.”</p><p>Boimler hums to let her know that he’s paying attention, while he rapidly gets dressed. If it was anyone else on the senior staff, D’Vana would feel super awkward, but she’s known Boimler for four years now, and shared quarters with him for one of them. There isn’t a single situation the two of them could be in right now that would phase her. Hopefully.</p><p>“Something’s screwball about the whole thing,” she continues, data padd in hand, rapidly shifting through various reports. “If this was a <em>Cerritos</em> log, it’d be understandable; we aren’t exactly known for being on top of our shit—”</p><p>“—hey now—”</p><p>“Unless it’s you,” she adds, rolling her eyes. “But from the new, shiny Federation Flagship? It’s raising some red flags.”</p><p>“What do you mean?” He buttons up his collar and clasps his insignia on. </p><p>She tilts her padd towards him. “Take a look.”</p><p>Boimler takes the padd from her. His eyebrow slowly inches upward as he scrolls down the lists of reports. “These are all senior staff.”</p><p>D’Vana suppresses a grin. Almost everyone starts a lower decks officer, but very few retain their experiences. The <em>Cerritos</em> is in the unusual position in that all of her superior officers were from the bottom of the barrel of Starfleet. It’s a lesser known ship with a mess of a crew. But hey, they get the job done, right? </p><p>“Kinda weird that the only reports we’re seeing are from the bridge crew,” she comments, leaning back against the wall, arms crossed. “Especially on a mission that’s specifically orientated toward senior staff delegating tasks to lower-end officers.” </p><p>“Have you been talking to Mariner?” Boimler sighs, running a hand through his unkempt hair. </p><p>D’Vana snorts. “Do you two ever actually have a conversation, or do you just passive aggressively talk through other people?”</p><p>“What’s that supposed to mean?”</p><p>“It means, yeah I talked to Mariner and she complains as much about you as you do of her.”</p><p>Boimler doesn’t look very happy to hear this. “What did she say?” he asks, tugging at his shirt to smooth the wrinkles out. It doesn’t do much. He frowns. </p><p>“Look, I’m not getting in the middle of your lovers quarrel. I’m just giving you the heads-up on this” D’Vana smoothly interjects, trying to transition the conversation away from Mariner and <em>feelings</em>. “If you really don’t think it’s an issue, I’ll drop it.”</p><p>“But?” he sighs. </p><p>“<em>Buuuut</em>, my recommendation, as one of your senior officers, is that you let me. Dig. A little.” <em>In a less than legal way</em>, she adds mentally. </p><p>Boimler gives her a flat look. “Just to be clear, you aren’t going to put me in a situation where I have to justify why one of my top medical officers has the fucking skillset of Jason Borne.” </p><p>“Nice reference. Little out-dated. And no, absolutely not.” She beams at him. </p><p>He rolls his eyes but loosens up a little. “Have Ulk or Rutherford proof whatever you have up your sleeve. And keep Mariner out of it, <em>please. </em>I need her on the ground.” </p><p>“Aye, aye,” D’Vana gives a jaunty salute. “Have fun babysitting Mariner on Aureus VII. Or, you know, whatever you two do when you’re on missions together.”</p><p>“Actually, I might send her and the team by herself,” Boimler says, stopping D’Vana in her tracks. “Or I might go. I don’t think both of us should leave the ship.”</p><p>“So you <em>do</em> have a weird feeling about all of this,” Tendi says, slowly. </p><p>“Okay, fine! I have a weird feeling about it!” </p><p>“Goddammit. Okay, I’m going to go talk to Rutherford and get his take on it. If all four of us are having the same weird feeling then it’s probably because something fucked up is happening.” She pauses. “It’d be really great to have <em>one</em> major mission that doesn’t go to hell on this ship, huh.” </p><p>He sighs. “Yeah. I’d really like for us to get the recognition we deserve without…”</p><p>“Without the ship blowing up, a wormhole opening, time travel shenanigans, crew members de-aging, parallel versions of us showing up, and/or other Starfleet personnel threatening us and our crew?” D’Vana lists off cheerfully. </p><p>Boimler stares at her. “You have a list.” </p><p>“I started keeping it before Mariner got her. It’s gotten more extensive since.”</p><p>“Yeah, that checks out. Okay, go do what you do best and get back to me when you find something.”</p><p>Tendi grinned. <em>When</em>, not if. </p><hr/><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sup y'all, I'm back on my bullshit</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I was only going to start posting this when I was 10 chapters in, but depression set in and I crave validation, so here y'all go &lt;3 </p><p>Beta read by the amazing<a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/LastOneOut/pseuds/LastOneOut"> LastOneOut</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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